Her uncle and both her aunts were in the drawing–room when
Fanny went down. To the former she was an interesting object, and
he saw with pleasure the general elegance of her appearance, and
her being in remarkably good looks. The neatness and propriety of
her dress was all that he would allow himself to commend in her
presence, but upon her leaving the room again soon afterwards, he
spoke of her beauty with very decided praise.

“Yes,” said Lady Bertram, “she looks very
well. I sent Chapman to her.”

“Look well! Oh, yes!” cried Mrs. Norris, “she
has good reason to look well with all her advantages: brought up in
this family as she has been, with all the benefit of her
cousins’ manners before her. Only think, my dear Sir Thomas,
what extraordinary advantages you and I have been the means of
giving her. The very gown you have been taking notice of is your
own generous present to her when dear Mrs. Rushworth married. What
would she have been if we had not taken her by the hand?”

Sir Thomas said no more; but when they sat down to table the
eyes of the two young men assured him that the subject might be
gently touched again, when the ladies withdrew, with more success.
Fanny saw that she was approved; and the consciousness of looking
well made her look still better. From a variety of causes she was
happy, and she was soon made still happier; for in following her
aunts out of the room, Edmund, who was holding open the door, said,
as she passed him, “You must dance with me, Fanny; you must
keep two dances for me; any two that you like, except the
first.” She had nothing more to wish for. She had hardly ever
been in a state so nearly approaching high spirits in her life. Her
cousins’ former gaiety on the day of a ball was no longer
surprising to her; she felt it to be indeed very charming, and was
actually practising her steps about the drawing–room as long
as she could be safe from the notice of her aunt Norris, who was
entirely taken up at first in fresh arranging and injuring the
noble fire which the butler had prepared.

Half an hour followed that would have been at least languid
under any other circumstances, but Fanny’s happiness still
prevailed. It was but to think of her conversation with Edmund, and
what was the restlessness of Mrs. Norris? What were the yawns of
Lady Bertram?

The gentlemen joined them; and soon after began the sweet
expectation of a carriage, when a general spirit of ease and
enjoyment seemed diffused, and they all stood about and talked and
laughed, and every moment had its pleasure and its hope. Fanny felt
that there must be a struggle in Edmund’s cheerfulness, but
it was delightful to see the effort so successfully made.

When the carriages were really heard, when the guests began
really to assemble, her own gaiety of heart was much subdued: the
sight of so many strangers threw her back into herself; and besides
the gravity and formality of the first great circle, which the
manners of neither Sir Thomas nor Lady Bertram were of a kind to do
away, she found herself occasionally called on to endure something
worse. She was introduced here and there by her uncle, and forced
to be spoken to, and to curtsey, and speak again. This was a hard
duty, and she was never summoned to it without looking at William,
as he walked about at his ease in the background of the scene, and
longing to be with him.

The entrance of the Grants and Crawfords was a favourable epoch.
The stiffness of the meeting soon gave way before their popular
manners and more diffused intimacies: little groups were formed,
and everybody grew comfortable. Fanny felt the advantage; and,
drawing back from the toils of civility, would have been again most
happy, could she have kept her eyes from wandering between Edmund
and Mary Crawford. She looked all loveliness—and what
might not be the end of it? Her own musings were brought to an end
on perceiving Mr. Crawford before her, and her thoughts were put
into another channel by his engaging her almost instantly for the
first two dances. Her happiness on this occasion was very much
alamortal, finely chequered. To be secure of
a partner at first was a most essential good— for the moment
of beginning was now growing seriously near; and she so little
understood her own claims as to think that if Mr. Crawford had not
asked her, she must have been the last to be sought after, and
should have received a partner only through a series of inquiry,
and bustle, and interference, which would have been terrible; but
at the same time there was a pointedness in his manner of asking
her which she did not like, and she saw his eye glancing for a
moment at her necklace, with a smile—she thought there was a
smile—which made her blush and feel wretched. And though
there was no second glance to disturb her, though his object seemed
then to be only quietly agreeable, she could not get the better of
her embarrassment, heightened as it was by the idea of his
perceiving it, and had no composure till he turned away to some one
else. Then she could gradually rise up to the genuine satisfaction
of having a partner, a voluntary partner, secured against the
dancing began.

When the company were moving into the ballroom, she found
herself for the first time near Miss Crawford, whose eyes and
smiles were immediately and more unequivocally directed as her
brother’s had been, and who was beginning to speak on the
subject, when Fanny, anxious to get the story over, hastened to
give the explanation of the second necklace: the real chain. Miss
Crawford listened; and all her intended compliments and
insinuations to Fanny were forgotten: she felt only one thing; and
her eyes, bright as they had been before, shewing they could yet be
brighter, she exclaimed with eager pleasure, “Did he? Did
Edmund? That was like himself. No other man would have thought of
it. I honour him beyond expression.” And she looked around as
if longing to tell him so. He was not near, he was attending a
party of ladies out of the room; and Mrs. Grant coming up to the
two girls, and taking an arm of each, they followed with the
rest.

Fanny’s heart sunk, but there was no leisure for thinking
long even of Miss Crawford’s feelings. They were in the
ballroom, the violins were playing, and her mind was in a flutter
that forbade its fixing on anything serious. She must watch the
general arrangements, and see how everything was done.

In a few minutes Sir Thomas came to her, and asked if she were
engaged; and the “Yes, sir; to Mr. Crawford,” was
exactly what he had intended to hear. Mr. Crawford was not far off;
Sir Thomas brought him to her, saying something which discovered to
Fanny, that she was to lead the way and open the ball; an
idea that had never occurred to her before. Whenever she had
thought of the minutiae of the evening, it had been as a matter of
course that Edmund would begin with Miss Crawford; and the
impression was so strong, that though heruncle spoke
the contrary, she could not help an exclamation of surprise, a hint
of her unfitness, an entreaty even to be excused. To be urging her
opinion against Sir Thomas’s was a proof of the extremity of
the case; but such was her horror at the first suggestion, that she
could actually look him in the face and say that she hoped it might
be settled otherwise; in vain, however: Sir Thomas smiled, tried to
encourage her, and then looked too serious, and said too decidedly,
“It must be so, my dear,” for her to hazard another
word; and she found herself the next moment conducted by Mr.
Crawford to the top of the room, and standing there to be joined by
the rest of the dancers, couple after couple, as they were
formed.

She could hardly believe it. To be placed above so many elegant
young women! The distinction was too great. It was treating her
like her cousins! And her thoughts flew to those absent cousins
with most unfeigned and truly tender regret, that they were not at
home to take their own place in the room, and have their share of a
pleasure which would have been so very delightful to them. So often
as she had heard them wish for a ball at home as the greatest of
all felicities! And to have them away when it was given—and
for her to be opening the ball— and with Mr. Crawford
too! She hoped they would not envy her that distinction now;
but when she looked back to the state of things in the autumn, to
what they had all been to each other when once dancing in that
house before, the present arrangement was almost more than she
could understand herself.

The ball began. It was rather honour than happiness to Fanny,
for the first dance at least: her partner was in excellent spirits,
and tried to impart them to her; but she was a great deal too much
frightened to have any enjoyment till she could suppose herself no
longer looked at. Young, pretty, and gentle, however, she had no
awkwardnesses that were not as good as graces, and there were few
persons present that were not disposed to praise her. She was
attractive, she was modest, she was Sir Thomas’s niece, and
she was soon said to be admired by Mr. Crawford. It was enough to
give her general favour. Sir Thomas himself was watching her
progress down the dance with much complacency; he was proud of his
niece; and without attributing all her personal beauty, as Mrs.
Norris seemed to do, to her transplantation to Mansfield, he was
pleased with himself for having supplied everything else: education
and manners she owed to him.

Miss Crawford saw much of Sir Thomas’s thoughts as he
stood, and having, in spite of all his wrongs towards her, a
general prevailing desire of recommending herself to him, took an
opportunity of stepping aside to say something agreeable of Fanny.
Her praise was warm, and he received it as she could wish, joining
in it as far as discretion, and politeness, and slowness of speech
would allow, and certainly appearing to greater advantage on the
subject than his lady did soon afterwards, when Mary, perceiving
her on a sofa very near, turned round before she began to dance, to
compliment her on Miss Price’s looks.

“Yes, she does look very well,” was Lady
Bertram’s placid reply. “Chapman helped her to dress. I
sent Chapman to her.” Not but that she was really pleased to
have Fanny admired; but she was so much more struck with her own
kindness in sending Chapman to her, that she could not get it out
of her head.

Miss Crawford knew Mrs. Norris too well to think of gratifying
her by commendation of Fanny; to her, it was as the occasion
offered—”Ah! ma’am, how much we want dear Mrs.
Rushworth and Julia to–night!” and Mrs. Norris paid her
with as many smiles and courteous words as she had time for, amid
so much occupation as she found for herself in making up
card–tables, giving hints to Sir Thomas, and trying to move
all the chaperons to a better part of the room.

Miss Crawford blundered most towards Fanny herself in her
intentions to please. She meant to be giving her little heart a
happy flutter, and filling her with sensations of delightful
self–consequence; and, misinterpreting Fanny’s blushes,
still thought she must be doing so when she went to her after the
two first dances, and said, with a significant look, “Perhaps
you can tell me why my brother goes to town to–morrow?
He says he has business there, but will not tell me what. The first
time he ever denied me his confidence! But this is what we all come
to. All are supplanted sooner or later. Now, I must apply to you
for information. Pray, what is Henry going for?”

Fanny protested her ignorance as steadily as her embarrassment
allowed.

“Well, then,” replied Miss Crawford, laughing,
“I must suppose it to be purely for the pleasure of conveying
your brother, and of talking of you by the way.”

Fanny was confused, but it was the confusion of discontent;
while Miss Crawford wondered she did not smile, and thought her
over–anxious, or thought her odd, or thought her anything
rather than insensible of pleasure in Henry’s attentions.
Fanny had a good deal of enjoyment in the course of the evening;
but Henry’s attentions had very little to do with it. She
would much rather not have been asked by him again so very
soon, and she wished she had not been obliged to suspect that his
previous inquiries of Mrs. Norris, about the supper hour, were all
for the sake of securing her at that part of the evening. But it
was not to be avoided: he made her feel that she was the object of
all; though she could not say that it was unpleasantly done, that
there was indelicacy or ostentation in his manner; and sometimes,
when he talked of William, he was really not unagreeable, and
shewed even a warmth of heart which did him credit. But still his
attentions made no part of her satisfaction. She was happy whenever
she looked at William, and saw how perfectly he was enjoying
himself, in every five minutes that she could walk about with him
and hear his account of his partners; she was happy in knowing
herself admired; and she was happy in having the two dances with
Edmund still to look forward to, during the greatest part of the
evening, her hand being so eagerly sought after that her indefinite
engagement with him was in continual perspective. She was
happy even when they did take place; but not from any flow of
spirits on his side, or any such expressions of tender gallantry as
had blessed the morning. His mind was fagged, and her happiness
sprung from being the friend with whom it could find repose.
“I am worn out with civility,” said he. “I have
been talking incessantly all night, and with nothing to say. But
with you, Fanny, there may be peace. You will not want to be
talked to. Let us have the luxury of silence.” Fanny would
hardly even speak her agreement. A weariness, arising probably, in
great measure, from the same feelings which he had acknowledged in
the morning, was peculiarly to be respected, and they went down
their two dances together with such sober tranquillity as might
satisfy any looker–on that Sir Thomas had been bringing up no
wife for his younger son.

The evening had afforded Edmund little pleasure. Miss Crawford
had been in gay spirits when they first danced together, but it was
not her gaiety that could do him good: it rather sank than raised
his comfort; and afterwards, for he found himself still impelled to
seek her again, she had absolutely pained him by her manner of
speaking of the profession to which he was now on the point of
belonging. They had talked, and they had been silent; he had
reasoned, she had ridiculed; and they had parted at last with
mutual vexation. Fanny, not able to refrain entirely from observing
them, had seen enough to be tolerably satisfied. It was barbarous
to be happy when Edmund was suffering. Yet some happiness must and
would arise from the very conviction that he did suffer.

When her two dances with him were over, her inclination and
strength for more were pretty well at an end; and Sir Thomas,
having seen her walk rather than dance down the shortening set,
breathless, and with her hand at her side, gave his orders for her
sitting down entirely. From that time Mr. Crawford sat down
likewise.

“Poor Fanny!” cried William, coming for a moment to
visit her, and working away his partner’s fan as if for life,
“how soon she is knocked up! Why, the sport is but just
begun. I hope we shall keep it up these two hours. How can you be
tired so soon?”

“So soon! my good friend,” said Sir Thomas,
producing his watch with all necessary caution; “it is three
o’clock, and your sister is not used to these sort of
hours.”

“Well, then, Fanny, you shall not get up to–morrow
before I go. Sleep as long as you can, and never mind
me.”

“Oh! William.”

“What! Did she think of being up before you set
off?”

“Oh! yes, sir,” cried Fanny, rising eagerly from her
seat to be nearer her uncle; “I must get up and breakfast
with him. It will be the last time, you know; the last
morning.”

“You had better not. He is to have breakfasted and be gone
by half–past nine. Mr. Crawford, I think you call for him at
half–past nine?”

Fanny was too urgent, however, and had too many tears in her
eyes for denial; and it ended in a gracious “Well,
well!” which was permission.

“Yes, half–past nine,” said Crawford to
William as the latter was leaving them, “and I shall be
punctual, for there will be no kind sister to get up for
me.” And in a lower tone to Fanny, “I shall have
only a desolate house to hurry from. Your brother will find my
ideas of time and his own very different
to–morrow.”

After a short consideration, Sir Thomas asked Crawford to join
the early breakfast party in that house instead of eating alone: he
should himself be of it; and the readiness with which his
invitation was accepted convinced him that the suspicions whence,
he must confess to himself, this very ball had in great measure
sprung, were well founded. Mr. Crawford was in love with Fanny. He
had a pleasing anticipation of what would be. His niece, meanwhile,
did not thank him for what he had just done. She had hoped to have
William all to herself the last morning. It would have been an
unspeakable indulgence. But though her wishes were overthrown,
there was no spirit of murmuring within her. On the contrary, she
was so totally unused to have her pleasure consulted, or to have
anything take place at all in the way she could desire, that she
was more disposed to wonder and rejoice in having carried her point
so far, than to repine at the counteraction which followed.

Shortly afterward, Sir Thomas was again interfering a little
with her inclination, by advising her to go immediately to bed.
“Advise” was his word, but it was the advice of
absolute power, and she had only to rise, and, with Mr.
Crawford’s very cordial adieus, pass quietly away; stopping
at the entrance–door, like the Lady of Branxholm Hall,
“one moment and no more,” to view the happy scene, and
take a last look at the five or six determined couple who were
still hard at work; and then, creeping slowly up the principal
staircase, pursued by the ceaseless country–dance, feverish
with hopes and fears, soup and negus, sore–footed and
fatigued, restless and agitated, yet feeling, in spite of
everything, that a ball was indeed delightful.

In thus sending her away, Sir Thomas perhaps might not be
thinking merely of her health. It might occur to him that Mr.
Crawford had been sitting by her long enough, or he might mean to
recommend her as a wife by shewing her persuadableness.